Authors: Alex Gray
He was dreaming about Christmas. The tree lights had just been switched on and he could see his Dad’s face reflected in the glow from all the different coloured lanterns. He wasn’t allowed to touch any of the bulbs but the tree ornaments were a different matter. They were the same ones every year; the wee sailing boat that had long since lost any of its paint, the crimson and gold glass baubles, the box of tiny wooden toys that had come from somewhere in eastern Europe and of course the Fairy with a gauzy kind of skirt that Mum replaced year by year. There was something reassuring about all the familiar objects. Lorimer bent down to pick up the streams of tinsel from the paper bag where they were always kept and then straightened up to meet Mum’s eye.
Only it wasn’t his mum looking back at him, but Maggie. And he wasn’t a wee boy any more; he was aware of being grown up now and Mum and Dad were both gone.
Waking to a feeling of panic, Lorimer lay seeing the
people in his dream fade away as he reminded himself of the here and now. Maggie. She was gone too, but not irrevocably, like Mum and Dad. Was that why he’d dreamt it? Was he trying to hold onto her before it was too late?
There was sweat running down his chest and he wiped it away with a corner of the duvet. He’d phone Maggie’s mum today. Discuss the trip to Sarasota for Christmas. It was far enough away for him to plan some leave.
Surely this debacle in the Concert Hall would be done and dusted by then?
The socks in his bottom drawer were the old ones that had worn away in the heels. He’d meant to chuck them out long ago but had never quite got around to it. Now, pulling the washed out pair onto his feet, he was almost grateful for his own lack of domestic organisation. He’d have to do a wash today or else he’d be out of shirts as well. Tonight, he promised himself. He’d do it tonight. What with his earlier resolve to book the Florida trip, Lorimer felt rather pleased with himself. The dream of Dad and the Christmas tree lights flickered and went out as he whistled his way into the bathroom.
Under the hot spray of the shower his whistle was muted to a loud hum. It was only when he had begun to stamp his feet in time to the rhythm that Lorimer realised he was humming the ‘Anvil Chorus’.
He was out of the shower and towelling dry his hair in record time. What had happened to the percussionists since their preliminary interviews? That piece was to have been played in the second half. They’d always had two hammers ready. Why had that been? Had he even asked that question? And what had the players who were not needed for the first half of the concert been doing during
the time that George Millar was in his dressing room? He’d have his work cut out today to catch up with the transcripts of interviews. Annie Irvine had assured him that the computer files would be updated to make cross-referencing easier. Lorimer growled at his steamy reflection in the bathroom mirror. He’d see if that were true soon enough.
‘No breakfast this morning either? That’s not good for you, y’know!’ Sadie’s voice followed Lorimer out of the canteen as he strode along the corridor to his office, trying not to get his fingers too sticky with the icing from his daily Danish.
The file was still incomplete but he’d expected that. There were names and addresses of all the musicians, choral singers and the punters who’d had their evening’s entertainment cut short. Or had they? The morning headlines screamed murder at him from the
Gazette.
There was a grainy picture of Poliakovski that was obviously an old publicity shot judging from the man’s slimmer figure. Lorimer was torn between trying to focus on the computer screen and reading the front-page columns.
He gave up and rustled the paper into shape, beginning to read the tabloid version of events in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. They’d sensationalised it, of course. Poliakovski was their main focus of interest simply because of his high profile in the music world. There had been a short press statement following George’s death and a smallish piece had appeared the day following the Leader’s murder. But now the hacks had got hold of more details and were milking the story for all it was worth. Lorimer had to admit it made pretty bizarre reading.
Poliakovski claimed to have been devastated by George’s sudden death and the idea that someone could have got access to his dressing room so easily. There was a veiled suggestion that the killer had perhaps got the wrong victim, that in fact the Russian conductor was the real target and that this was a professional hit. Lorimer reeled at this. It was risible. But then the reporters hadn’t got all the facts. They weren’t to know about the immobilisation of the CCTV camera outside Morar, were they?
But would that have made such a difference? Lorimer’s mind spun rapidly. George Millar had been a fairly short chap, but, like Poliakovski, he’d sported a beard and was thinning on top. The Russian was a huge bear of a man. Surely there could have been no mistaking him if this had been a pro’s job? All the other attention to detail ruled that out, didn’t it?
The paper went on to discuss the Russian’s position on dissident musicians and his own political leanings within his country. There wasn’t an awful lot about poor old George, the actual victim. It wouldn’t be long, thought Lorimer, before they’d sniffed out the facts of George’s homosexuality. Then they’d have a field day. He wondered how Mrs Millar would respond to a crowd of reporters at her door.
Back on the screen, Lorimer could see the names of so many strangers scrolling up past him. The team had done a good job of tabulating the musicians’ names and addresses alongside their particular part in the Orchestra, even down to the desk number. Brendan Phillips’s hand was in this detail, Lorimer supposed. There had been four percussionists paid for that night’s concert, two men and two women. Three were British, one American,
Lorimer noted. No Eastern Europeans amongst them. Why had he made that mental remark to himself? Was he becoming paranoid over the
Gazette
’s suppositions? The percussionists’ statements all tallied. They’d been together in their dressing room from the time the rest of the Orchestra had trooped on stage to the time they’d been informed of George’s death. They’d followed the concert on the TV monitor in the room. Only one of them had been out of the room for more than a few minutes. Cassandra Austen had visited the ladies toilet once during that time. CCTV footage had confirmed her statement. Lorimer was impressed. The team had been hard at work collating what evidence there was and now there could be a proper process of elimination.
The CCTV footage had helped enormously, though not in the way Lorimer had first hoped. The members of the audience who had come into the auditorium had been checked out. Very few had left their seats during the first half of the performance. Most had visited the toilet area by the cloakrooms. One had been seen taking a telephone call on his mobile at the foot of the stairs. He’d been confirmed as a Consultant Surgeon on call. There were no suspicious punters mooching about backstage. To take the audience out of the equation gave Lorimer a huge sense of relief. The members of the Chorus had trooped on stage in a particular pre-ordained order. There was even a pegboard with their names in a seating plan that had been checked against a still from the monitor. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a killer amongst them, but it did narrow the possible time of death to the twenty minutes before the Chorus had appeared on stage. Prior to that, they’d been clustered on the stairs leading from dressing rooms 5, 6
and 7 for a final briefing from their Chorus Master.
Lorimer stopped reading and frowned. Where had the Chorus Master gone after that? He scrolled up and down but failed to find the man’s name amongst the musicians or members of the Chorus. Odd. After the thoroughness of the rest of the team’s efforts this was a glaring omission. He searched back through the list of members of the audience. It wasn’t there either. The final check had to show his name amongst all the back room boys, surely? People like Brendan Phillips and other administrators, the drivers and shifters and the permanent Concert Hall staff were all listed in a separate file. But the name was still missing. Lorimer chewed his lip. He didn’t even know who he was looking for, simply a name against the designation: Chorus Master, City of Glasgow Chorus. When he’d checked the lists again he lifted the phone and dialled Brendan Phillips’s number at the orchestra Manager’s headquarters.
‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. Any news yet?’ Brendan Phillips’s voice sounded breathless as if he’d been running to pick up the phone.
‘Nothing to pass on to you as yet, sir. But I do have a question to ask you. Do you have the full name and address of the Chorus Master?’ Lorimer’s question was intended to make it seem as if he was querying information he already had rather than fill in an embarrassing blank.
‘Could you hold just for a minute?’ Lorimer heard the clunk of the handset being placed on Brendan’s desk as he waited for the Orchestra Manager to return.
‘Here we are. C. Maurice Drummond, 24 Belmont Street. Afraid I don’t know what the C stands for, Chief Inspector. we all know him as Maurice.’
Lorimer grinned to himself. This was a piece of pure luck. Phillips would think he needed the man’s Christian names. Whatever C stood for it wouldn’t make Chief Inspector Lorimer look a right Charlie. He’d follow it up, nonetheless, he thought as he scribbled down the man’s telephone number. Someone would have to go and check this one out. He’d enough to do without running around the West End every minute of the day. Lorimer dialled another number and gave instructions for a visit to be made to Mr C. Maurice Drummond.
Funny, though, he mused after he’d spoken to WPC Irvine, how he had slipped through the net like that.
By Rosie’s reckoning the murder had taken place before the musicians had gone on stage. The events behind the scenes during that half hour before the scheduled performance were pretty much visible on the CCTV footage. He’d spent hours watching the screen show men in dress shirts milling around their dressing rooms, folk smoking outside at the back door, musicians and members of the Chorus alike wandering through the warren of corridors backstage. And in the minutes before that particular camera had gone blank there was only an empty corridor. The last people seen moving along there had been Brendan Phillips and one of the female stewards. If Lorimer’s hunch was right, the camera had been tampered with by someone coming in from the area behind stage left, not someone who had calmly walked down the corridor towards it.
Rosie’s latest report had shown the substance on George Millar’s fingers to be nothing more sinister than resin from his bow. Lorimer supposed things like that were kept in the man’s violin case. The black duster, on the other hand,
showed traces of a stronger adhesive than mere double-sided sticky tape. It was an industrial strength adhesive not usually found in the normal outlets like newsagents or supermarkets. Bostik 6092 had only one supplier in Glasgow. It was a place up in the Balmore Industrial estate, according to Rosie. Lorimer grinned to himself. It was tiny details like these that could be followed up and become promising leads in a murder investigation. The murder weapon itself had been wiped clean. Lorimer imagined a figure bending over George Millar’s body then placing the percussion instrument where it might easily be seen.
The detective’s grin straightened into its customary frown, the twin creases deepening between his eyebrows. Had that been a deliberate ploy on the part of the killer? Had he been trying to draw attention to one of the percussionists? Poliakovski had mentioned working with Cassandra Austen, the American percussionist. She might have known the famous conductor’s habit of closeting himself in his dressing room, certainly. But why would she have left such an obvious clue as the murder weapon behind her? No. He could rule that one out on the grounds of simple common sense. But what if one of the men in that section had been having a clandestine affair with George Millar?
Lorimer harked back to Karen Quentin-Jones’ statement. She’d told him that George’s two current boyfriends had been a French horn player and a viola player. But, according to his wife, the lead violinist had been a promiscuous old boy. Lorimer drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk. The two men had already been invited in for questioning. Perhaps their statements might
shed some light on whether George had been playing around with anyone else in the Orchestra. Brendan Phillips had provided a CV for them both, Lorimer remembered, riffling through the papers in front of him. There it was, stapled to DI Grant’s report.
Simon Corrigan was a young man from Fife who’d come up through the ranks of local brass bands, going on to study at Glasgow’s prestigious Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama. He’d been with the Orchestra since graduating, Lorimer read. Carl Bekaert wasn’t much older than Corrigan, although his CV showed he’d had experience of other orchestras before coming to Glasgow. Lorimer was puzzled. He’d still to meet them both, it was true, but he couldn’t help wondering what on earth these two young musicians had seen in an older man like George Millar.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and he looked up to see DI Josephine Grant. Lorimer gave a perfunctory nod. Jo had been one of Superintendent Mitchison’s officers and had transferred to their Division not long after the Superintendent’s appointment. It was a promotion they all thought had been Lorimer’s for the asking. But Jo Grant had been more than simply one of Mitchison’s old team, Lorimer reminded himself. He recalled the Superintendent’s blonde companion at his previous boss’s retiral dinner. She’d scrubbed up well, too, as he remembered. The long running friction between himself and Mitchison could extend to any of his acolytes if Lorimer let it happen, but so far Jo showed no signs of taking sides with either of her superiors. Nor did it seem as if there was any lingering relationship between the Super and Josephine Grant.
‘This has just come in on email from Dr Fergusson,’ Jo said, handing him a sheet of paper. ‘Thought you might want me to do something about it,’ she added as he read its contents. Rosie had underlined one of a list of George’s personal effects, things that had been taken away for forensic examination. It was the bow for his violin.